


Yours Forever

by OnePercentPureFluff



Series: Hamilton Prompt Series [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Army, Engaged Hamilton/Laurens, It's really short, Laf's there for a second, M/M, My First AO3 Post, Oh! Burr's also mentioned. But it's not anything important, One day I'll edit this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:13:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27545902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnePercentPureFluff/pseuds/OnePercentPureFluff
Summary: John was supposed to come back in three months.---Based off on prompt(s) I found on the internet.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton & Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler, Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Series: Hamilton Prompt Series [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2013493
Kudos: 12





	Yours Forever

**Author's Note:**

> The three prompts I used in this story are:  
> 1\. “You stay awake, do you hear me?! Don’t you dare close your eyes! Please! Come on!”  
> 2\. It was then I finally understood why people fear silence.  
> 3\. “How do you do it?” “How do I do what?” “Pretend you’re okay.” “I’m not pretending.” “Yes, you are, every single day. And it breaks my heart.”  
> I got them all from Pinterest.  
> Hope you enjoy! :)

“You stay awake, do you hear me?! Don’t you dare close your eyes! Please! Come on!”

“Lafayette,” the doctor said, “he’s not coming back. Who do we inform of the officer’s death?”

\---

I wake up, heading into the bathroom to brush my hair. _Three more months_ , I think, _‘til he’ll be discharged and back home_. Three months… He’s been gone for three years; I can wait three more measly months. I twist the engagement ring on my finger, a nervous habit I picked up in the few years of wearing it.

I hear the doorbell ring.

“Ham!” Peggy yells up the stairs, hanging onto the railing and shouting to the second floor of my apartment. Her, and her two sisters had stayed over last night, after a dinner celebrating winning our latest case. _I should write to John about that,_ I note to myself, and resolve to do it later today.

“Get dressed! There’s some official looking man at the door for you!” she continues.

 _John! He came back early!_ My mind immediately jumps to, and it makes sense, Peggy wouldn’t be able to identify him, as I had met her after John left. Of course, she’d seen pictures, but his hair had been almost shoulder length in those, he’d been wearing baggy sweatshirts and jeans as well. Now, his hair was probably cut short, a military style, and he would be in his uniform. I wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t recognize him. I rush to pull some jeans on, and pull a presentable looking shirt over my head.

After doing so I walked down my narrow staircase, turning down the hallway to the front door, soon catching a glimpse of the men at the door. Oh…

“No,” I whisper, because my John, with his curly hair and kind hazel eyes isn’t standing there. Instead two military officials stood there, and I walk closer slowly.

“Mr. Hamilton, may we come in?” I nod, unable to find any words, and they step onto the carpet in the front entrance. “We recommend you find a seat; we bare bad news.”

We move into the living room and I sit, almost robotically, on the faded brown couch, still holding out hope that it won’t be as bad as I think it is. Peggy has drifted back to the kitchen, probably where her sisters are, but I see her lean on the wall in the doorway between the kitchen and living room.

“We are speaking to Mr. Alexander Hamilton, correct?” The blonde official askes.

I nod, then talk, quietly muttering, “yeah.”

“Mr. Hamilton,” now the second of the two, a dark-haired woman, addresses me, “I’m Mrs. Choi, and my partner here,” she gestures to the blonde one, “is Mr. Anson. The commandant of the Marine Corps has entrusted us to express his deep regret that your fiancée, John Laurens, was shot in action and died a few hours later in the base’s hospital in Afghanistan, at 15 hundred hours.”

Anson continues, “The commandant extends his deepest sympathy to you and your family in your loss.”

They state a few more things, one being that they’ll come back in 24 hours to arrange the funeral, but I’m frozen, it feels like I’m drowning and I can barely hear them. Luckily, Peggy made her way over sometime and was gripping onto my hand, grounding me, while nodding along to what the duo are saying.

Sometime later, I hear officer Choi ask, “Is there anyone else we should inform of officer Laurens’ passing?”

“Uh, possibly his sibling. I think they still live in South Carolina. I think that’s it; he wasn’t really close to anyone else…” I finally answer a question.

They nod. “We’ll show ourselves out,” Arson said. “Our condolences.”

They exit and silence fills the living room. It was then I finally understood why people fear silence. I always use to enjoy it, it helped me concentrate on my work. Now, it allows me to imagine possibilities, images I’d rather not imagine. Was John distressed when he died, or calm? Did he accept his fate, or did he fight it? My mind creates images of John’s face, contorted in pain. Were his hands shaking like they always did when he was agitated, the way I rarely see, usually just after he wakes up from a nightmare, shaking and unable to fall back asleep. The silence was scary, letting my imagination run wild, I needed something to listen to, something to distract myself…

I put my head I my hands, running them through my hair, concentrating on the pain when I tug at it. My scalp hurts, but it’s a much-needed distraction.

“Alex?” Peggy tentatively askes, and there’s another distraction. I look up, concentrating on her voice, repeating the sound over and over in my head, like an echo. _Alex, Alex, Alex…_

She reaches over to the side table, grabbing a tissue from the box and wipes away the tears streaming down my face. Huh, I didn’t even realize I was crying. Her motherly gestures comfort me somewhat, but it also reminds me of when John use to do the same thing for me.

“I, I think I’m gonna go upstairs, call me if you need me,” I shakily whisper, my voice hoarse. I slowly get up, turn, walking down the hallway, up the stairs and turn into my room, shutting the door.

Opening the top drawer of my desk, I take out I pile of letters, all addressed to ‘ _My dearest, Alexander_ ’, and signed, ‘ _Yours forever, John_ ’. I guess forever wasn’t as long as I thought it would be.

I read them over and over again, letting myself cry.

_What am I going to do without him?_

\---

It’s been a month since John’s funeral, and it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life, I not sure how I got through it.

As I drive to work, just as I’ve done everyday since then, I school my face into a neutral expression, making sure there are no cracks, no way someone will be able to see through it, and then I step out of my car, head to my desk, and work. Some people have commented that I’m acting just like my co-worker, Burr. Others ask why I’m so quiet and reserved contrary to my usual opinionated and loud-mouthed self, they wonder what happened. But never mind that.

“Paper, paper, where’d I put the scrap paper?” I mutter to myself, ruffling through the mess on my desk.

“They’re by your cup holder,” a voice speaks, and I jump, looking up to see one of the Schuyler sisters standing in the doorway. She breezes into my office, closing the door again behind her.

“Eliza! I didn’t hear the door open,” I exclaim, standing up and hugging her, then leaning on the desk. “What are you doing here?”

“How do you do it?” she askes softly, standing in her blue dress beside me, sorting my papers into piles while talking.

“How do I do what?” I ask, unsure of what she means. There are a lot of things I do that people are surprised by. Like being able to drink four cups of coffee at three in the morning and then write a ten-page essay in two hours.

“Pretend you’re okay.”

“I’m not pretending,” I answer, not wanting her pity.

“Yes, you are, every single day. And it breaks my heart.” She’s still speaking softly, like she’s waiting for me to break, like I’m a fragile piece of china.

And then there’s silence. I hate it, because images from my nightmares appear in my head with nothing to distract me from them. Was it silent when John died? Did he die with the silence surrounding him, drowning him as if it were water? It hurts to think about, and my façade breaks. I dissolve into tears, and she hugs me close to her chest, comforting me.

“He was the light of my life,” I tell her. “No, he was my life, my light in the darkness. I don’t know what to do without him…”

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry this was so short.  
> This is my first AO3 post. Any constructive criticism is welcome and appreciated. (What did you like/dislike?)  
> Can you tell I like italics?  
> I wrote this for remembrance day, and wasn't able to post it then. This is basically a modern spin of the soldiers not coming/going home.  
> If I ever write anything offensive a) it was a complete accident, and b) tell me and I'll fix it.  
> This is part of a series, but updates will be really irregular, as I have a lot of school work and don't have much time for writing.  
> I got all my information about notification officers here: https://www.military.com/spouse/military-life/how-military-conducts-death-notification.html , just incase you want to check it out.


End file.
